


Pseudoprime

by manic_intent



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Spoilers for Seasons 1 and 2, That fic where everyone is emotionally stunted, and nobody manages to communicate properly with anyone, except maybe Bear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, Harold sleeps with Mr. Reese because the Machine tells him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pseudoprime

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished watching seasons 1 and 2. :) Love this show!

I.

At first, Harold sleeps with Mr. Reese because the Machine tells him to.

At the beginning, and very briefly, he thinks that the curt SMS is some sort of prank, if in terrible bad taste, by Ms. Morgan, perhaps. But then the phone calls from public pay phones start coming, and the command prompt windows, all on top of the hourly SMSes, until Harold bans Reese from coming by the Library, claiming that he's working out an intricate bug with his systems. Poor Bear gets packed off to Reese's apartment, squeaky toys and all, whining reproachfully as he's tugged away. 

A verbal ban has never exactly stopped Reese from doing whatever he wanted, though, so Harold is a little thankful that the Machine also helpfully snowed them under with enough numbers to keep Reese, Shaw, Carter and Fusco all busy while he beavers away at the bug in its comms system.

After a week and a half, the Machine starts emailing Harold horrifically detailed photoshop composites, and after two weeks of relentless harassment, Harold breaks. "All _right_ ," he hisses into the webcam set on his computer. "You win. But just _once_."

Besides, he has to admit: he's now more than a little curious.

The Machine responds by helpfully emailing him five links, four of which contain frighteningly detailed instructions with regards to the mechanics of homosexual intercourse, and the last of which is a discreet website whereby one could obtain seemingly every perverse sexual tool known to mankind. Harold isn't sure whether to be fascinated or horrified, and as he stares at the… demonstration… photographs on the site, Reese's voice startles him.

"I'm in Miss Stevens' apartment. She doesn't own a computer." 

"Wouldn't have expected it of an octogenarian," Harold replies distantly, and belatedly catches himself. Their current lead, after all, originated because of an email chain from an email account attributed to Miss Stevens. "Try the local internet cafes."

"Yeah." There's a pause - Reese is perceptive, after all. "How're you going on that bug, Finch?"

"Still working on it," Harold glowers briefly at the open websites, then he closes them. 

"You should take Bear back," Reese notes mildly, even as there's the faint scrape of his shoes on the floorboards. Reese is circling the apartment. "He misses you."

"I think I'll be able to survive a few weeks without his endearing approach to the appreciation of first edition classics, Mister Reese."

"A few _weeks_ -" Reese cuts himself off, and the lifted tone to his voice slips back to neutral. "Is it really going to take you that long?"

Is that a plaintive note? "Despite your elevated opinion of my abilities, I am not a miracle worker." 

"All right," Reese sounds pointedly doubtful. "But you don't have to work all of those weeks. You could walk Bear. Or I could come by and-"

" _No_." Harold cuts in sharply, and takes in a deep, silent breath. The _last_ time Reese had 'come by', his flexible approach to Harold's privacy had meant that he had almost picked up Harold's phone, just as the Machine had sent him another 'helpful' text. "No, just… just keep working on the numbers."

"This isn't about Root, is it?" Reese inquires, just as mildly. Harold tries not to stiffen. Root had 'mysteriously' vanished from the secure psychiatric ward that she had been checked into two weeks or so ago, around the time when-

Around the time when the Machine's inconvenient bug had begun. Staring at the command prompt windows, Harold felt a brief spike of panic that he slowly suppressed, with another breath. No, it couldn't be Root. This wasn't exactly her style: besides, what would she have to gain? 

"Finch?" Reese prompts, when there's only silence, and Harold takes in a final breath. This had to be a symptom of the Machine's latest, unfettered incarnation. Something to be explored, and ultimately, ironed out.

"I'll come over to your apartment later today," Harold says vaguely. "I suppose I should check on Bear." 

"All right," Reese notes, his tone careful. "What time?"

"When I'm finished with my work for today. Pay attention to the number, Mister Reese." 

Harold spends the next two hours in a state of nervous apprehension, doing no work whatsoever, then he sighs, and gets up from his chair with a faint grimace. He'll have to pick up condoms, at the very least. Preliminary research, _not_ from the sites suggested by the Machine, had indicated that somewhat more preparatory work was necessary for the mechanics involved. He finds that he's not disgusted by said research, and to be honest, he supposes that he's a little… curious.

Besides, he's about 99.5% sure that Reese will merely smile his inscrutable smile and laugh it off. He's clearly heterosexual. And after all, Harold decides, with greater relief, whether Reese knows it or not, Reese is ADMIN now - maybe or maybe not along with Root - the lack of full access notwithstanding, and Harold remembers what that was like. Upon the reboot, the Machine had imprinted on Reese. 

Just like before, when it had first imprinted on Harold, it was going to want to know everything about its pseudo-parent-creator. The Machine had certainly been extremely detailed in its original analysis of Nathan. Just like before, it's probably trying to work out an accurate algorithm analysis of Harold's relationship with Reese.

He's in such a pleasant state of relief that Harold's even prepared a mental script for what he would tell Reese about the bug after Reese's inevitable rejection, by the time he gets to Reese's apartment. Surprisingly, Reese is already there, fully dressed, suit and all, and Harold hesitates briefly at the door, his mental script crumbling into a blank, even as Bear bounds over happily to snuffle at his hands. 

It's been a week and a half of effectively only seeing Reese through surveillance cameras, and Harold hasn't realized that he's _missed_ Reese's presence, illogically enough. Reese is always there, after all, a voice in his ear and a presence on the screen. Physical presence is irrelevant for the Machine's purposes.

Until now.

Maybe there's something there. Harold considers it long enough that Reese asks, quietly, "Harold?"

Harold awkwardly pats Bear's flank, and the dog trots off to settle down in its bed, near the window. Harold wipes off his hands with his handkerchief, buying time, then he limps his way over to the couch and sits down, nervous again. He very nearly jumps when Reese sits down next to him, inches apart. 

"Is this about Root?" Reese asks again, in the same neutral tone. "You don't need to worry. Shaw's looking for her."

"No! No." Harold swallows, hopefully not audibly. "I, ah, I have a bit of a proposition to make, Mister Reese." 

"Well," Reese drawls, "Propose away, Mister Finch."

"I wish to add," Harold tries not to flush, "That you are fully within your rights not to agree, and I will take no offence at it, just as I hope that you will take no offence at my question. It will not, I assure you, affect your job or, uh, our current arrangements in any way."

"… all right, Finch," Reese says, his eyebrows arching. "Now you've just made me very curious."

"Would you, ah…" His mental script refuses to resurface, and Harold grits his teeth. "Perhaps I should begin by asking you a personal question, Mister Reese. Again, you're fully within your rights not to answer it." Maybe the Machine will be happy with this. "Are you, ah, also sexually attracted to men?"

It's possibly the most crassly intrusive question that he's ever asked anyone, but now that it's out, he feels a bit of a relief. Reese is staring at him oddly, his face blank, as though trying to figure out a puzzle.

After a long moment, he asks, "Is this about a new number?"

"No!" Harold nearly yelps, before he composes himself. "It's a personal curiosity of mine."

He expects Reese to laugh, or raise his eyebrows and make a suitably sardonic response, but instead, Reese smiles, and it's a smile that Harold hasn't seen before on Reese: it's small, tentative and sweet. It makes his palms start to sweat, his mouth going a little dry, even as Reese asks, "How… personal is this curiosity?"

"Very personal."

"Well then, I would say," Reese, to Harold's astonishment, reaches over, pressing a too-warm palm over the inseam of his trousers, just above the knee, intimate but not too provocatively so, "That my preferences follow people, not their genders." 

His plans considerably derailed, Harold blinks owlishly at Reese, floored, and he's only startled out of his shock when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Reese shuts his eyes, as though in irritation, though his hand doesn't move, and Harold sneaks a glance at the message.

It's blank. Harold briefly considers breaking his phone, but he doesn't want to risk the Machine texting Reese's, or worse, sending those blasted _composites_ , so he swallows hard and manages a very steady, "Perhaps a demonstration is in order, Mister Reese?"

Reese instantly tries to lean in for a kiss, and reflexively, Harold brings up a hand, nearly swatting Reese over the chin. Reese arches an eyebrow at him, and Harold silently kicks himself even as he fumbles for an appropriate explanation. "I said a _demonstration_ ," he says, as blandly as he could. "Not a _gesture_." 

He gets subjected to another slow, thoughtful glance, then Reese smiles that slow, sweet smile again, and slips off the couch, going on his knees even as he gently nudges Harold's thighs open. Harold straightens up, instantly tense, but Reese doesn't seem to have noticed, stroking his big, warm hands up and down Harold's inner thighs before latching on to his hips and tugging him closer, pressing a kiss to the definitely swelling bulge in his trousers, then - God above - rubbing his cheek reverently against it.

Dear God. Harold swallows his choked squeak, about to try to push Reese away, damn the Machine and its weird bug, but Reese is working his belt open with fumbling hands, pulling down his zipper, and gets a hand over the far-too-thin material of Harold's straining boxers before he can raise a note of protest. This isn't _right_. 

Harold doesn't know where he gets the determination from, but he manages a shaky breath, his hands clenching tightly. "Thank you, Mister Reese, that's enough." 

He expects irritation, or mystification, but what he gets instead is a look of raw desperation. " _No_ , no, no, Harold, I'm sorry, what did I - just direct me. Instruct me. Whatever you want. Please, I'll do it." 

It's the plea in Reese's eyes that gets him. "You _want_ this?" 

"I can prove it. Let me prove it." 

This is entirely inadvisable, but what Harold finds himself saying instead of a gentle letdown is, "Then prove it, Mister Reese." 

Reese doesn't bother with anything from the #1 to #24 Suggested Items of Foreplay that one of the horrific sites suggested; instead, he just tugs down Harold's boxers and trousers far enough to free his hardening cock, and swallows him down.

All. The way. 

A brief skim of the horrific websites before he had closed them had indicated that this technique was a statistical rarity, but before Harold can grasp further at the memory, Reese _moans_ and clamps his hands over his hips, pulling him even closer and starting to suck. Dear God in Heaven- ecstasy spikes through him, forcing a strangled gasp from his throat; this is far more than any understanding of pleasure that Harold has ever experienced. The hot press of Reese's throat, closing tight over his full arousal - Christ - it's unbelievable, unholy, _divine_.

Reese squirms, breathing hard through his nose as he bobs back then tugs Harold towards him. It takes a moment for Harold to realize that Reese is trying to encourage him to thrust into his mouth, and he tenses, his breath hissing out behind clenched teeth as his hands curl over Reese's shoulders. He doesn't know what to do for a long and frozen moment, then his hips twitch up, and Reese muffles a _whine_ around him. 

Harold tries to be gentle, he really does, but between Reese's choked groans and the wicked _thing_ that he's somehow doing with his tongue, Harold finds himself with one hand curled around the back of Reese's head, _using_ him, shoving his hips against slicked lips, burying himself into the tight clench of Reese's throat until he's spent, finally spent, with a thin cry of his own and his fingers fisting into Reese's starched collar. 

He sinks back against the couch, breathing hard, even as Reese pulls back with a wet sound and then licks him slowly clean, his eyes dazed, _adoring_ , and there's - there's nothing really that Harold can think to say. He watches silently as Reese tucks him away and zips him back up. Maybe he should try and reciprocate, something like that, but as Harold wonders how to even _start_ , Reese asks, his voice hoarse and wrecked, "Was that… was that good? Good enough? For you?"

Harold frowns a little at Reese, blinking, wondering if Reese is being sarcastic - that had been _incredible_ \- and Reese's expression crumbles and smooths into his blank mask, dropping his eyes. "Thank you, Mister Reese," Harold says finally, unsure of what else to add, painfully aware of how far out of his depth he is in this very instance, and Reese nods, getting stiffly to his feet. He has a damp patch down the front of his trousers, and it takes Harold a belated moment to realize that Reese - God - Reese had come just from-

Reese disappears in the direction of the bathroom, even as Harold's phone buzzes. It's a text, of three full stops, evenly spaced: '. . .' 

He frowns at it for a moment, then shakes his head, getting awkwardly to his feet. It's probably impolite to leave, but he isn't sure what else to do, what to say, so he takes a breath, gives Bear a wave, and hobbles out of the apartment. No payphones ring along the way home, but Harold is uncomfortably aware that he doesn't feel relieved in the least.

In the morning, still harassment free, he puts a call through to Reese. "You may bring Bear back this morning, Mister Reese." He hears a short exclamation of breath. "Mister Reese?"

"Yeah." Another harsh exhalation. "I'll be there." 

Puzzled, Harold stares briefly at his screens, wondering whether or not to check in on Reese, then his phone beeps. Cautiously, he peers at it, but it's just a number, and by the time he finishes the preliminary research and Reese shows up with Bear and a box of donuts, he's quite forgotten about his concerns.

II.

The second time he sleeps with Reese, it's because of Bear.

Evidently the Machine had decided that three weeks was long enough to go without having anomalies, and had started first emailing Harold websites about training and socialising dogs, and then buying and mailing books to a variety of his addresses, _including_ his favourite safe house. Harold didn't keep a home anymore - he hadn't, not since he had lost Nathan, just to be safe - but the Central Park apartment has a little bit of sentimental value. It's the first safe house he ever outfitted, after all, when he had first founded IFT with Nathan.

Worried that perhaps the Machine has had some insight into how Bear is being treated, Harold reads all the websites and all the books, and ends up as blithely puzzled as ever. He does, however, assiduously carve out as much time as he can to take Bear to the dog park, or strongarm Leon into doing so, but he can't really seem to make out any change in Bear's behaviour. 

It's a week into the anomaly when Shaw turns up in the Library with her usual lack of ceremony, leafing through one of the dog books as Harold lets Bear off the leash. He bounds over to her, panting and wagging his tail, and she pats Bear on the head before dropping the book back on his desk. 

It was _The Well Adjusted Dog_ , by one Doctor Dodman, and Harold glances briefly at it as he settles down gingerly into his chair. "Miss Shaw, may I help you?"

"You know that I was joking, right?" Shaw states dryly, tapping at the book. "Mostly joking."

Harold blinks slowly at her. "Joking about what, Miss Shaw?"

"So this isn't about Reese?"

"What about Mister Reese?"

"… okay," Shaw drawls, "Suit yourself. I don't know what the two of you are up to, but snap out of it. Being mopey in the field is just asking for an excuse to get shot." 

Harold puzzles over Shaw's words even as he obligingly retrieves the GPS signatures of her three suspects, and adds, as he hands them over, "I could have texted these to you."

"You _could_ ," Shaw tilts her head, "But I wanted to come by to see what was wrong in paradise."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What's wrong?" Harold asks, even more bewildered now.

"You tell me, Harold," Shaw taps the book again, and saunters out of the Library. 

"I think I should have acquired more cops instead of more black ops agents," Harold tells Reese later, as he monitors Reese's path of destruction through a seedier sector of Brooklyn. 

Reese merely grunts. He's been business-only in all conversations that he's had with Harold, ever since the Incident in the apartment, and Harold had originally decided to let it slide. After all, it was still a source of considerable embarrassment to him, not to mention that he could never reasonably tell Reese exactly what was the source of his 'personal curiosity', and it had seemed easier to just pretend that it had never happened. 

After these three weeks, however, Reese's behaviour _does_ seem suspicious, especially when Reese's monosyllabic attitude actually manages to spook even Carter. "What's wrong with the both of you?" she growls, even as she follows Reese around into an alley, service weapon drawn and cocked. "Can you both please deal with your problems when we're _not_ in the middle of a gangfight?"

"I was told recently that I had to improve on my multitasking skills," Reese drawls, and although there's something uneven in his tone, it's close enough to his usual attitude that Harold finds himself grinning faintly. 

"Your concern for our well-being is appreciated, Detective," Harold advises, "And also unfounded."

"'Unfounded'?" Carter snaps, "My God! It's been _weeks_ , Finch. I deal with enough domestics in my day job, I don't need to have to be a fly on the wall for whatever the two of you are-"

"Tristan's getting away," Reese cuts in helpfully, and the next hour's convoluted enough for Harold to briefly forget the implications. He does, however, put it together afterwards, especially when he looks up and realizes that Bear has happily - and ironically - shredded all the dog training books.

Shaw had called _Reese_ the poorly socialised guard dog. Was this a second attempt by the Machine? A similar bug?

"Haven't you done enough damage?" Harold tells the Machine, a little peevishly, and his phone beeps. It's a still from one of the cameras in Reese's apartment, an overhead view of the couch: Harold's leaning forward, his hands curled over Reese's shoulders, Reese kneeling between… Hurriedly, Harold deletes the still, and destroys the footage from all cameras of that period of time in Reese's apartment for good measure. 

He wonders, slightly annoyed, as he whistles Bear over, whether the Machine has somehow managed to learn malice. 

Bear tugs at the lead and whines when they reach Reese's apartment, despite Harold's commands, to the point where Harold's actually worried by the time he lets them in. Bear scrambles off once he's off the lead, bounding over to the couch and leaping onto it, licking at the person slumped over it. It's Reese, and for a horrified moment, Harold thinks that he's hurt, somehow, but then he gets closer and sees the empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table. 

It's not the _only_ bottle.

Worried, Harold manages to shoulder Bear aside. Reese's eyes are closed, but his pulse is strong, even though he stinks of scotch, and he doesn't seem visibly wounded. Just as Harold's wondering how to move Reese somewhere more comfortable, a shaky hand comes up and grasps his wrist, and Reese opens his eyes, unfocused. 

"Finch," he drawls, and grins a small, crooked smile. "Should've known."

"Bear knew," Harold says, and Reese frowns a little at him, even as Bear whined and wagged its tail again. "How much did you drink tonight?"

"Mm. Just the one. Ran out." 

"Any reasons for your revived disinterest in your liver's well-being?" Harold tries to keep his voice even. Whatever is eating at Reese, it has to be bad. "What's wrong, John?"

" _You're_ asking me?" Reese demands, incredulous. 

"Despite my technology, I'm not omnipotent, Mister Reese."

To his surprise, Reese grabs the back of his skull and pulls him down; Harold flinches back instinctively, bracing his hand sharply on the couch, and Reese drops his hand, his lip twisting. "There. A _demonstration_. Of what's 'wrong'."

Ah. Yes. "I did mention," Harold says, uncomfortably, "That it was fully within your rights not to agree."

"Not to-" Reese barks out a sharp laugh. "How was I _not_ going to 'agree'?" 

"You do seem to be regretting it," Harold points out. "For which I-"

"I'm not sure what I'm regretting," Reese narrows his eyes. "I've been thinking it over. Every day. But I can't figure out what went wrong."

"Nothing went wrong," Harold notes, openly puzzled now. "As I said, it was just a personal curiosity."

"So now," Reese slaps his hand back against the couch, "Your curiosity's been satisfied? That's it?"

"That's it," Harold echoes, hoping that he's right, and the damned Machine is finished with this odd line of social harassment. Reese, however, lets out an abortive sound, like he's swallowing back a gasp, and Harold squints at him, for a long and careful moment.

Oh.

"You want more?" he asks, finally, surprised.

"Of _course_ I want more," Reese says fiercely, and his eyes are wild, "I want _everything_. God, Harold, don't you know what you do to me?"

"Certainly," Harold says automatically - he does have a strong interest in surveillance, after all, and he's always watching Reese during missions - and Reese sucks in a soft breath, biting down briefly on his lower lip. " _Oh_. You mean. Well." He clears his throat, and at the corner of his eyes, he can see Bear thumping his tail against the couch, his tongue lolling out as he watches them with friendly canine curiosity.

It's rather confronting, and Harold adds, "Maybe we should take this elsewhere. If you can walk."

Reese's face slowly lights up, even though his eyes are still a little unfocused, and Harold somehow manages to get the both of them to Reese's bedroom and pour Reese into the plush mattress. Reese drags him down as well, careful of his hip, rolls him onto his back and leans up onto his elbows, studying Harold with a warm intensity that makes his heart rate pick up. 

Somehow, he has the thigh of his good leg pressed between Reese's legs, and beyond all reason and rationality they end up grinding against each other, undignified, gritty, exhilarating, until Reese stiffens up with a harsh gasp. Harold's close, panting; he clutches at Reese's shoulder until Reese shifts back and fights the buckle on his pants, then the zipper. When Reese swallows Harold's cock again, just as effortlessly, he _hums_ -

Harold's blissfully sated at the end of it: not that he lasted very long, and Reese is curled carefully against him, brushing sloppy kisses over Harold's shoulder, stroking his hand down Harold's chest to his somewhat rounded belly. His touch is light, reverent again, and it's… nice, but also unsettling. Reese drifts off just as Bear gets it into its head to settle heavily over their feet at the foot of the bed, and Harold tries to sleep, he really does, but it's difficult, pressed against another person with a restraining, heavy weight over his feet. 

Thankfully, Reese is in a dead sleep due to the alcohol, and Harold manages to worm himself out. He's disheveled and utterly unpresentable, but he decides to brave the public anyway. Reese isn't a good influence.

He's already in the Library by the time Reese makes an appearance with Bear, coffee and tea in tow. He doesn't look hung over, but there's something disconcertingly diffident about his posture. "Finch," he says, finally, "Did you come over last night? To my place?"

"Bear has many talents, but navigating his way to your apartment would be out of his ambit of expertise," Harold points out. Bear barks, as if to disagree, but he does tumble happily into his dog bed, panting, so Harold disregards his apparent opinion.

"All right," Reese notes slowly, and stares at Harold oddly until Harold sends him packing with another number's details. He's less monosyllabic over the comm today, though, even if he does growl at Fusco for cracking a joke about kissing and making up. 

Harold tunes them out, busy tracking bank transactions and IDs, which, thanks to an unexpectedly complex firewall, means that he's at it for most of the morning and afternoon, and is tired by the time Reese asks casually, over the comm, "Are you free for dinner, Mister Finch?"

"Mister Edwards' situation is unlikely to be resolved by dinner."

"Supper?"

"Stay focused, Mister Reese," Harold instructs, and gets an irritable, "Oh my _God_ , the two of you are _hopeless_ ," from Shaw that is utterly, in his opinion, undeserved.

III.

The third time that he sleeps with Reese, it's because of Shaw and her terrifying single-mindedness.

"Look," she tells him, on one of her surprise trips to the Library, materializing soundlessly behind his shoulder, "This isn't working."

Harold wipes down his hands with the paper towel provided by the donut shop, having tipped some of the tea over himself in shock when Shaw had spoken. "Ah… good afternoon, Miss Shaw."

"You're the best handler I've ever had," Shaw continues, as though he hasn't spoken. "This sort of thing is normal, all right? It's not unusual to get emotionally attached to great handlers. But after that, it has to be resolved, or it fucks with the dynamic."

Harold stares at Shaw for a long and horrified moment, then he manages to state, his voice hitching a note higher, "Miss Shaw, what are you implying?"

"Well," she drawls, drawing out her words slowly, as though talking to a slow child, "When an agent gets _very_ attached to his or her handler, the usual procedure is to change handlers. If that's not possible for any reason, the unofficial Company recommendation is for both parties to work it out between themselves. Out behind enemy lines, you'll usually prefer to take a good fuck over a new and unknown handler any time."

"Unfortunately the relationship between us can only, at the very most, be platonic," Harold tries not to squeak, blinking rapidly, and Shaw glowers at him.

"I'm not talking about _me_ , Harold. I'm talking about the giant puppy who spends all his downtime following you around. My latest partner. Which. Is not. Bear. Sadly."

"Oh, um," Harold lets out a deep breath. "Well. We've already. Er. Worked things out."

"Really."

"Yes. Er. Twice, if you really must know." Harold wishes he hadn't said that, but Shaw has this intense way of staring at someone, as though she's trying to decide whether to shoot them or disembowel them, and it's disconcerting. "And Mister Reese has always been extremely curious about my personal life."

"'Always'?" Shaw repeats, and rolls her eyes. "And you never thought that it was weird?"

"Isn't curiosity a good trait for a spy?"

"Within directed measure, sure," Shaw scowls at him. "Otherwise, _no_. Learning how _not_ to be curious unless we have to be is an _essential_ trait for an _agent_ , and Reese is a fairly decent one." 

"High praise," Harold notes, a little amused. 

"So you see," Shaw prods him in the arm, "I like this arrangement, Finch. I like the pay, I like the safehouse you set me up with, I like what we do. So this is me being patient with the two of you. Work. Out. Your Goddamned. Problems. Before someone gets hurt in the field." 

"I'll see what I can do, Miss Shaw," Harold manages not to squirm under her pointed stare, and tries not to breathe out a sigh of relief as Shaw stalks out of the Library. 

He does, however, go over to Reese's apartment after the day's number is resolved. The bottles are gone, which is a relief, and the kitchen's empty. Reese is nowhere to be seen, which is also, in its own way, a bit of a relief, and Harold plays with Bear for a bit before settling down in the couch. 

Save for the guns in the closet, Reese's apartment doesn't seem lived-in in the least. Harold supposes that he can identify with that. All of his safehouses are also carefully impersonal, their decor varied, with nothing in them that could link back to him. It's a safe way to live, he supposes, but also a lonely one. 

He's just about decided to leave when Reese returns, dressed in track pants and a gray shirt that looks as though it's been glued to his broad shoulders, clearly back from a jog. He blinks at Harold for a moment before he asks, mildly, "Did something come up?"

"I felt that we should talk," Harold begins, then hesitates. "I can come back some other time."

"No, I'll just get cleaned up," Reese says quickly, "Stay there." He disappears, and eventually reappears with damp hair and clean clothes. It's startling seeing Reese in casual clothes; almost obscene seeing the stretch of the khaki shirt over his biceps. Harold tries not to stare. He's already made things worse than they should have been by giving in to the Machine in the first place.

Reese settles down on the couch beside him, smelling of soap and shooing Bear back to his dog bed. "What did you want to talk about, Finch?"

"Shaw told me," Harold chooses his words carefully, "That there's a problem when an agent gets too attached to his handler."

Reese's shoulders tense almost imperceptibly: Harold would have missed it if he hadn't still been staring at his biceps. "That's Company policy."

"I suppose there are some similar lines," Harold murmurs, "You see, Mister Reese, I've always wanted you to prioritise the work that we do, the numbers. You're the contingency, after all. I've long accepted that this… calling… is difficult and dangerous. An early death is a statistically probable result, particularly with my… limitations."

"I can multitask," Reese's feet are pressed flat on the ground, a classic, unconscious fight-or-flight response. "And I'm not particularly one for statistics. Harold, you're not only the best handler that I've had-"

"About that-"

"-you're also a friend. Maybe more. I can't help but 'prioritise' that. In my line of work," Reese reaches over, pressing a tentative hand over Harold's knee, "We don't often meet people whom we can truly value. Besides," he adds, when Harold doesn't speak, "I've managed to resolve other numbers on the few times that you've been in trouble. Along the way." 

"I can't help but think," Harold says finally, "That I've somehow exacerbated the situation. The first time that I… approached you, about the, ah, personal curiosity, you see, the truth of it is-"

"I think I've gotten to a point," Reese interrupts, "Where I don't really care about your motivations, Harold. I know that I can't have what I want from you, and that's fine. I still wake up happy in the morning. I still really like this job. I owe you. So I won't ask for anything more from you. I'll be happy with whatever you're willing to give."

A kiss seems to be the appropriate response to that, as much as Harold still feels guilty over his secrets, and the way Reese lets out a startled, muffled moan and immediately pulls Harold into his lap is encouraging. Reese is careful of his old injury as he settles Harold over his knees, and it's rather less undignified than Harold imagined. The kiss turns sloppy and hungry all too quickly, and his glasses are knocked smudged and askew by the time their lungs start to burn for air.

Reese looks wrecked, wide-eyed and flushed as he draws Harold back for another, even hungrier kiss, until their lips are swelling and raw, until Harold has his fingers dug tight into Reese's shirt. They end up with their trousers hurriedly discarded on the floor, rubbing wet and awkwardly against each other, their cocks caught in Reese's big hand; it's hell on his back and on his good leg, but Harold still finds himself biting down on Reese's neck when he comes.

The shower's too awkward for two, so Reese gets them cleaned up with towels and somehow manoeuvres them into bed, curling up against Harold with a breathy, happy sigh. Harold contemplates the curve of Reese's arm, stretched over his belly, and marvels a little at the statistical improbability of it all. Reese is an extremely handsome man. Harold is aware that he himself is not; he's aware of all of his flaws, and has long accepted them. There's an anomaly here, as unexpectedly lovely as it is to luxuriate against Reese's warm frame in the dark, and he briefly wonders if this is what caused the bug in the Machine. 

"Has the Machine tried to contact you recently? By itself?" Harold asks Reese, in the dark.

A kiss brushes over his shoulder, and Reese murmurs, "If it did, wouldn't you know?"

"I don't actually watch you all the time, Mister Reese."

"Surely we've progressed to a first-name basis by now."

"… John," Harold concedes, because he has to admit that it's a little ridiculous clinging to propriety when half-naked in bed with someone else.

"To answer your question, no. But sometimes," Reese adds, thoughtfully, "I'm surprised that it doesn't. Or at least, not directly."

"Not directly?"

"Sometimes convenient 'coincidences' crop up when Shaw and I are out on a job. You've said that when it was first created, it tried to protect you above other people. Harold, I think - remember what you said about imprinting? I think it imprinted on me, when I answered that phone. And maybe it imprinted on Root, as well." 

"Both are distinct possibilities." 

"And you've said that you had to teach it things, at the start," Reese continues, sounding a little uncomfortable. "So I've tried. I spend a bit of time everyday talking to it. I don't know if it's listening. Or, I mean, I know that it's listening, but I don't know if it's paying attention."

"It probably is," Harold notes, blinking slowly. "What do you talk to it about?"

"Everything. It was easier at the start, when there were no numbers. I was - I was trying to see if I could talk it into working again. I talked to it about some of the people we saved. How important it was. I tried to talk about good and evil, I guess," A laugh ghosts softly over his neck. "Yeah. I know what you're thinking. I'm hardly the best candidate."

"Actually, I think that you're eminently suited for it," Harold blinks. "The day before it sent us numbers again… did you say anything to it in particular?"

"Not really. I think I talked about me," Harold could feel Reese shrug against him. "And it already knows about me. Like you said before, I think it just needed that time to reboot, or whatever it was doing. It probably wasn't even listening."

"It's always listening." Harold corrects, and tentatively runs his fingers over the warm length of Reese's arm. "John, when you were talking to it about yourself," he says, as an insidious thought creeps up and holds fast, "Did you ever mention me?"

"How could I not?" Reese asks, oblivious and a little amused; another kiss brushes light over Harold's shoulder. "I don't know if you've realized this, Harold, but you're the most important person to me in this world right now."

"You told the Machine that you wanted to sleep with me?" Harold feels a little scandalised, on top of the odd warmth that he feels at Reese's matter-of-fact declaration of devotion.

"Well no," Reese drawls, sounding more amused, now, and even as Harold starts to breathe out in relief, he adds, "I told the Machine what I wished I could have. I don't just want to be someone you'll come to now and then with a 'personal curiosity'. But I'll take what I can get," he adds hastily, when Harold lets out a sigh. This _does_ explain things, on hindsight.

After all, years after Grace, after Nathan, Harold had passed by a wine bar on the way to 'work' at IFT, and had remembered an old conversation, marinated in scotch. Nathan had asked Harold why he had never married, and a little annoyed by his teasing, Harold had snapped something about having never met the right person. Stubborn as he was, Nathan had dug and dug at Harold's definition of the 'perfect' woman until they had ended up so drunk that they had been (respectfully) escorted out of the premises and into a cab, and he had quite forgotten about what he had said the next morning, let alone when he actually _met_ Grace. 

The perfect woman. Red hair, he had said, jokingly. Beautiful eyes. A love for the classics. Kind. A painter, a musician. Loves travel, loves Europe. Passionate but gentle. Sense of humour. Intelligent. Someone whom he can spend the rest of his life with, discussing Nietzsche or Jane Austen or Dostoyevsky and never, ever be bored. 

Nathan had done a lot of eye-rolling.

Come to think of it, Nathan _had_ shot him an odd look when he had first described Grace to him. Statistically, what was the probability, after all? And if the Machine had been so assiduous in meeting what it had thought were his requirements, Reese's request, as the new Admin, was hardly anywhere near as difficult. 

Finding Root was definitely going to have to be a priority after all. God knows what the Machine was doing for her to please her.

"You've gone all quiet," Reese muses, trailing fingers distractingly over his collar bone, tracing old scars. 

"I was thinking that there's a lot about the Machine that I don't understand," Harold replies, and gets a snort from Reese, who shifts up to press his lips against the spikes of Harold's hair.

IV.

The next time he sleeps with Reese, he has no excuse, not really. Nor for the next, or the next, and soon it's a regular and oddly comfortable arrangement. Harold comes by Reese's apartment if a number's problems are resolved before late evening, and they… resolve their own problems. Yes. That's what Harold decides to think of it.

It does seem to make Reese even more efficient at handling the numbers, which is good. In a way. Harold can't help but wonder if this is somehow the Machine's intention, but he supposes he's probably attributing far too much subtlety to it.

This seems to resolve whatever problems Shaw was having with the both of them, as well, and Harold has always liked routine, within reason. This is just like before, except better, with Shaw's equally terrifying competence, and they're free to try and check up on Decima or Root whenever they can. 

Things only go to hell when Root abruptly reappears one day, in the guise of a personal aide to a senator, and blithely kidnaps Harold, yet again. This is growing a little old, and he glares briefly at a passing street camera as he's hauled away into a stolen car.

"The Machine loves me now, Harold," Root gushes at him as she drives. "It just wants me to be happy. I'm still Admin, did you know? It still does things for me."

Harold wonders whether or not to tell Root that Reese is also Admin, and decides not to. He stares out of the window, resigned to yet another week of Root's specialised brand of sociopathic mayhem.

"And what I really want, other than having the Machine as my friend," Root adds, with her bright, brittle, little-girl smile, "Is you, Harold. I want us all to be a family. We've all never really had a family, not for a long time. All three of us, together. We can fix the world together. All that bad code, we can take it all out."

This is going to be interesting, Harold decides, despite the rapidly deteriorating situation. Conflicting Admin requests. The Machine was going to have to make a choice. He isn't sure whether it would help, but when Root's distracted, he hisses to a street camera, "Reese. Help Reese." 

Maybe it helps. Reese's rescue is as dramatically violent as ever, though Root manages to escape. Shaw takes off after her, but Reese takes Harold back to the apartment, complaining all the way about how Harold really _should_ take Bear along whenever he goes out on any sort of walk. 

Tonight Reese's touch is reverent, slow, as though he can't get enough, clinging to Harold's arms as he preps himself and sinks down with delicious deliberation onto Harold's cock. It's better than usual, somehow, this slow rhythm and the heart-stoppingly beautiful look of undivided ecstasy on Reese's face as he rolls his hips; this is what love is, Harold thinks, dazed, this transcendent moment of selfless joy. 

"I used to have this crazy thought sometimes," Reese tells him afterwards, when they're sticky and curled together. "I felt like the Machine did this for me, somehow. The way it was obviously helping Root." 

"It's capable of a lot of things," Harold says cautiously, and kicks himself for the almost-lie. 

"It helped you find Grace, didn't it?" Reese asks thoughtfully. "We found one of your old file caches, with your notes. It helped us trace Root to that safehouse."

"Yes," Harold admits, quietly. "It found Grace for me. John-"

"That's what I thought. I told it earlier," Reese continues, "That it can't work miracles. It can't always make people do things the way it wants, at least, not where it matters. That the real miracle of human existence," Reese's lips press against Harold's temple in the dark, "Is something that can't be coded. I told it that helping Root was pointless, because she'll never be able to really get what she wants."

"No," Harold agrees, reaching up, to press a hand over Reese's cheek. "She never will."

"I know about those texts and emails," Reese nuzzles down to his jaw. "And the 'photos', and the dog books. The Machine showed me. I guess it was trying to refute my argument." Harold freezes, but Reese nips down to his jaw. "At first, I was pretty angry. But it wasn't…" Reese makes a helpless sound. "I thought, if there was nothing there but curiosity, you probably wouldn't have kept coming back. Wouldn't have kissed me. Was I right?"

Harold doesn't say anything - he's wondering what to say. He once promised Reese that he'll never lie to him, and he's tried to keep that promise ever since. In a way, Reese is right. What Harold has allowed to happen has gone far beyond the ambit of curiosity, far beyond friendship. This is something else, beyond devotion, beyond code. He isn't sure what it is. He had been willing to give Grace up, to move on. He's never been able to move on from Reese, come hell, high water, the FBI, the mafia, bomb vests and the rest of the world. 

"Never mind," Reese says finally, into the silence, as his hand tightens around Harold's wrist. "Don't answer that. I don't… I don't need to know. Like I said before, I'm happy with what I can get."

"John," Harold comes to a decision, "Before, you mentioned that you want 'everything' from me. I don't think you realized that you already have everything that you can get from me that matters." 

It's a sappy thing to say, made worse by the awkwardness in his tone, but it's true, and it's been true for longer than Harold can remember. Reese tenses against him, for a long moment, then he surges up, his kiss so fierce that it steals his breath away; this too is a moment beyond devotion, beyond code. Harold wonders if the Machine understands, as he licks against Reese, gentling him, stroking his shoulders and the curve of his back. He hopes that it will, someday. Then it will truly be free.

"So I just had to ask?" Reese murmurs, breathless, when he lets up.

"You just had to ask," Harold agrees, and this is the truest thing, he thinks, that he's ever said to Reese. They've come too far together, and there's more and forever to go.


End file.
